I Don't Drink
by ALollie
Summary: John decides to blog about the first (and only) time he and Lestrade take Sherlock out and get him drunk. One or Two-shot. NO SLASH, just friendship. T for drinking and swearing
1. Chapter 1

Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Sorry for not updating in a while, but we haven't had a case in a while.

This isn't the sort of thing I normally blog, but it was so funny, I just had to share.

Sherlock's damned boredom was driving me up the wall. He called Lestrade every day, and dragged me up and down London looking for excitement, and leaving half-finished experiments all over the flat. HE played his violin at 2 am and finally, at its worst, he blew up his bedroom.

It was a huge explosion, and I thought he was seriously hurt, but he came out of his room, his clothes scorched and his hair singed, with a look of complete and utter apathy. "I require cleaning supplies," he stated plainly. I just sighed.

Lestrade came by after the bomb squad left. "Sherlock, what have you done now?" he sighed.

"It's hardly my fault the criminals of London haven't the imagination or gall to commit a decent crime," he grouched. He still hadn't cleaned himself up from the explosion.

"Sherlock, that's hardly an excuse for _this_," Lestrade said, trying to get him to understand that one cannot go about creating combustion chambers in their rooms simply because no one had been murdered recently. "_This_ is madness!"

"Well, the cleaning crew and wall repairmen said they would be finished before long," I said, trying to draw attention from the glaringly obvious fact that almost everything Sherlock did was madness. It was about 8 at night, but the owner of the company had his crew at 221B working late because Sherlock had solved a case for him once, involving his war-hero son's disappearance. "They said 1 am at the latest."

"Well, do you two want to grab a drink with me? I just got off for the weekend, and I decided to grab a few before I head home." Lestrade said.

"So your wife kicked you out again?" Sherlock deadpanned, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

"Shut up, Sherlock. You know what, you're uninvited. John, are you coming?" Lestrade said, looking to me.

"Sure let me just grab a jacket," I said, making for the stairs up to my room. Then a thought struck me: what if we got Sherlock drunk?

I mean, he rarely drank, and even when he did, he never got drunk. Sherlock simply seemed to clean-cut for mundane things like pubs and drinking with friends. Then again, there was that whole business about the drugs. I still couldn't get the whole story, but I had pieced together that it had been cocaine, and sometimes heroin and morphine, and that he had been almost completely dependent on the drugs. When they finally dragged him off to rehab, his addiction got marked don as one of the worst cases they had seen, and therefore their best success story. Regardless, Sherlock didn't drink, especially not to excess, and honestly, who wouldn't want to see a drunken Sherlock?

I called Lestrade over and told all of this to him, sans the part about the drugs. Lestrade had been one of the few people Sherlock would listen to regarding the impertinence of his sobriety, so the subject still seemed to hit home for Greg.

"Is that a good idea?" He asked, warily. "After all, Sherlock is a nutcase while sober, who knows what he'd be like after a few drinks?"

"Isn't that the point? Aren't you curious?" I prodded.

"How would we even get him to come with us?" Lestrade asked, because he _was_ curious.

"Leave it to me."

I turned on the telly, making sure the volume was up to 56. For some reason, that number was the number was the number Sherlock absolutely _hated _the volume to be on. Anything below that was fine, but 56 and above was to be completely avoided.

"The volume is at 56, John, why is the volume at 56?" Sherlock asked irritably form the sofa. He'd had his eyes closed when Lestrade and I reentered the room after deciding to get Sherlock Holmes completely pissed.

"It's not," I lied. Then, I changed the channel to a talk show, which Sherlock could not stand.

"I hate those shows, John, you know I hate those shows. Why is it on that show?" Sherlock asked slightly more irritably.

"It was on," I evaded. I proceeded to eat the homemade candies Mrs. Hudson made, as loudly as possible. I handed some to Lestrade, and he did the same.

"John! Must you eat so—oh." Sherlock sighed. "You want me to go somewhere with you, don't you?"

"Yes," I said honestly. "Come to the pub with Greg and me."

"Greg and _I_," Sherlock said without inflection. "I don't want to go to the pub."

"Come anyway. You're bored here anyway, and I will just keep making life hell for you here. Think out it as an experiment. 'What would happen if Sherlock Holmes, went to a pub?" I prodded.

"I'd sit there and drown in even more boredom. Really, John, I hate pubs."

That told me he'd been to one before. "Sherlock, have you ever drank before?" I asked, without accusation or judgment, merely curiosity.

"Yes John, during my…days in the Homeless Network. I never drank to excess, though. Alcohol is a waste of time, it results in temporary stupidity and long-term brain damage.

"Says the man who shot up four to six times a day," Lestrade muttered under his breath. Sherlock glared at him, but turned back to John.

"I don't drink. I am not going."

:"Sherlock…"

"No."

"But you could test out and catalogue different reactions of alcohol on different types of people. That could be useful on a crime scene, right?" I wheedled.

"Yeah, say an angry man killed his wife because he was drunk, but all the evidence pointed to someone with the common characteristic in funny drunks. We'd convict the wrong men." Lestrade said using logic to his advantage, which was always a dangerous gamble with Sherlock Holmes, who practically lived on logic.

"…I can see the merit of such an experiment. Fine, I'm going, but I'm not drinking anything," Sherlock said, caving and standing to go shower and rinse off the soot.

"That's what you think," I said under my breath. Lestrade heard and snickered freely, as Sherlock was by all rights in the upstairs bathroom already.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock came back into the room, in his usual attire. "I'm ready," he sighed.

We all trooped downstairs and grabbed a cab. Lestrade gave the driver the address of our usual pub. The ride wasn't too awkward, but there wasn't much conversation. Until Sherlock deduced that the driver had a brother who was arrested oversees for murder and a young daughter who had fallen pregnant and was going to tell him later that night. The driver kicked them out forcefully. Lestrade and I just sighed and shook our heads. "We can't take you anywhere, Sherlock." Lestrade chuckled. It was all in good humor, especially since we were only a block from the pub.

"If he's getting us kicked out of cabs while he's sober…" Lestrade whispered to me. I nodded, suddenly wary.

Because there was still the small matter of how to get Sherlock to actually take a drink. He'd already adamantly said he didn't drink, didn't want to drink, and wasn't going to drink. _We'll cross that bridge when we get to it,_ I thought.

* * *

We arrived at our usual pub. Upon entering Greg headed straight for the bar and I for a table. This was our routine. Sherlock followed me, sighing.

"Sherlock, we haven't even sit down yet and you already hate it?"

He answered without hesitation: "Yes."

I shook my head.

Lestrade returned with 3 beers, looking as innocent as he could.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I told you I wasn't drinking tonight."

"Well, I brought it in case you change your mind." Greg said cheekily.

"I won't…And even if I did, it'd be warm by then." Sherlock said, muttering the last bit.

That gave me the indication that Sherlock really had drank before. He said he never got drunk, but…I was determined for this night to go according to plan. I was conducting my own experiment tonight.

We sat around and talked for a while, after a few pints, Lestrade and I loosened up. Sherlock still hadn't touched his glass. But the conversation flowed easily. Then, Sherlock began his experiment of deducing the patrons. "He's depressed, probably because he just got sacked, more likely that his divorce went through and she got the kids."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, "I've known you for 5 years, almost 6, and that never ceases to amaze me."

Sherlock grinned.

A few minutes later, Greg noticed a colleague at the bar, and went over to say hello. And I got a call from Clara, my sister's ex-wife. I took it outside, not wanting Sherlock to deduce the entire conversation.

When I came back, Sherlock's pint was half gone. I looked at him in surprise. "I got thirsty, and I didn't feel like getting up for a water." He said easily.

I accepted it, but he continued to nurse his beer, and by the time Lestrade got back, there was only a fourth left. Lestrade raised his eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look. Sherlock either didn't see us or was ignoring us, as he was busy deducing the patrons.

When he finished his beer, he looked up in surprise, like he had no idea why it was empty. Greg simply chuckled and asked if he wanted another. He shook his head, and I was a little disappointed, we were getting Sherlock to loosen up, _finally_, and he just shut down. But my optimism returned when he said, "I don't like beer, but I'll take a Scotch."

Greg looked surprised. "Okay…" He said, and headed off to order the drinks.

"You drink Scotch?" I asked surprised.

"I'm just more used to it," he said. "My father drank nothing but Scotch."

He was this open after one pint? I couldn't wait to see what the rest of the evening held.

* * *

Greg returned, and handed Sherlock his drink. We sat around laughing and talking and I couldn't believe I was having fun with Sherlock outside of a crime scene investigation. He was funny. He didn't mean to be, but his sarcasm had just the right balance and his wit was quick, and he always had a sassy remark.

He and Lestrade told me stories from when they met. "…And this idiot practically fell out of the sky!" Lestrade was saying, his cheeks red from the alcohol. "I am not an idiot, and I was watching from a tree, not the sky. And I didn't fall, I jumped down…And _you're_ an idiot." He said, almost as an afterthought. John busted up and looked at him for the first time since Greg began the story. His cheeks were red too, and he was smiling. _Actually smiling_. And his glass was empty again.

Greg called the bartender over and ordered everyone a refill. My vision was getting fuzzy around the edges. I focused on Greg, with some difficulty, and wondered how Sherlock was feeling, since he was the one who drank the least. But if I asked about it, he'd shut down, so I stayed quiet and tried to observe.

His smile cam easier, and he even laughed once or twice. His face was flushed, and since he was usually so pale it was easy to see. "Excuse me," he said, interrupting Greg, who was telling the part of the story of what happened after he fell—excuse me, _jumped_—out of the tree. He got up and we watched him walk to the restroom. HE didn't stumble, he was actually quite steady on his feet.

"Sherlock Holmes, heavy weight." Lestrade said jokingly.

"Yeah he's had like 3 glasses, plus that pint earlier." I said. So Sherlock had more tolerance than I originally thought. "Who would've thought?"

Sherlock returned, and the good times began again.

About half an hour later, Sherlock had switched to doubles and I was drunk. Not too drunk, but had we taken a car, I certainly could _not _be the driver. Sherlock seemed _fine_, thought he did seem a little tipsy. His eyes were kind of glassy and his witty comments didn't come so quickly anymore, but he seemed like he wasn't severely affected.

"Damn, Sherlock, how high is your tolerance?" Lestrade said, laughing a bit. Sherlock just smirked and took another swig. Then his eyes lit up, like they did when he realized something. "You took me out just to get me drunk, didn't you?"

"Yeah, and it's not working!" Lestrade cried, making me snicker and Sherlock smirk.

He just shook his head. "I don't drink much. The only time I ever drank was to soften a crash…or to embarrass Mycroft in front of someone important," he grumbled, almost like he was…ashamed.

"You never talk about that," I said, finding myself curious about how someone as brilliant as Sherlock bloody Holmes could succumb to something as menial as a drug addiction, yet never have drank anything.

"It's a long story, John. And I'm not drunk enough to talk about it." He said, sounding tired. My eyes widened when I realized I'd said everything aloud. I started to apologize, but Sherlock shook his head, stopping me, and calmly ordered another drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Nearly 30 minutes later, I said, "Are you drunk enough now?"

He scoffed. "Hardly," he said. But I knew better. Because his eyes were glassy and his cheeks were flushed, and his condescending words were slurry. Just a bit, but enough to count.

"You're drunk," I said, sounding childishly triumphant.

"I've been drink for nearly an hour and a half! Whatever you and Lestrade and his Yarders like to say about me, I am not literally a machine!" he said, sounding exasperated. Which was hilarious.

"Do you have the urge to table dance yet?" Lestrade asked, grinning wolfishly. I snickered.

"And you wonder why I don't accompany you on these ridiculous outings." Sherlock muttered.

"Sorry, sorry." I placated.

The conversation flowed more evenly. We even got him to laugh a few times. I know it sounds crazy, but Sherlock's laugh is both odd, and kind of nice. It's as deep as his voice, but it sounds under-used. One would think Sherlock Holmes could laugh and still sound his usual posh, condescending self, but in fact, he sounded like what he was at the moment: drunk on an outing with friends.

"I wanna hear about Mycroft's birthday," I said. He told us the only time he'd gotten actually _drunk_—falling down, making-out-in-closets, loud and pitchy karaoke _drunk_—was at Mycroft's birthday.

"Oh, fine," he assented. "Mycroft was turning twenty-something, and our father threw a huge party for him with all sorts of 'important' people on the guest list. The double function of the party was to introduce him to these people to further his career, which was just starting out," he began, taking a swig from his glass. HE was the only one still drinking. Lestrade and I were tapped out.

"Anyway," he continued, "I was forced to go because they expected me to also become a big, important, government type," he said in a mocking voice, supposedly an impression of his father. If his imitation was accurate, we knew where Sherlock got his baritone from. "I was 17 and I didn't want to go. Because my father hated me and I him, and Mycroft was a wanker…Mycroft _is_ a wanker." He said correcting himself.

"An hour in to the party, I was bored."

"Surprise, surprise," I mumbled.

"Shut up," he said giggled. Lestrade reached over and took his drink. Slang and storytelling was fine, but Sherlock does not giggle.

"NO giggling," Lestrade said. Sherlock pouted =, but continued at a signal from me.

Getting over his pout, Sherlock continued. "But the party did have an open bar, and since father was nowhere to be seen and Mycroft was off being an overweight pomp, no one stopped me and I took full advantage. It started off as an experiment—"

"Why am I not surprised?" Lestrade laughed. "What was the hypothesis?"

Sherlock blushed even more. "I don't remember," he muttered

Lestrade and I burst into laughter. Sherlock _Holmes_, didn't _remember_.

"I was plastered! Oh shut up" he said, stealing his drink back from Lestrade's third of the table.

"We're sorry." Lestrade said, wiping his eyes.

"Continue," I said.

"No." Sherlock said, suddenly an enormous child.

"Okay we promise not to interrupt anymore." I said, and sniggered as I saw Lestrade dopily cross his heart in a comical impression of a child swearing something to a friend.

"There's not much else to tell," Sherlock slurred, having finished the rest of his drink, and having the rest from earlier in the evening catch up with him all at once. "I drank till I couldn' walk, then I took his girlfrien' in a coat closet, then he catched—'scuse me, _caughted_—us. Then he dragged me ou' and push'd me then I fell ov'r a dess'rt table. Then Fath'r found out and he 'scused all the guests. Then hhe beat me up then Mummy came ou' and taked—_tooked—_me inside. Then I woke up with a hangover." He finished with a hiccup, then a frown.

"I think I really am dr'nk _now_." He said. "We shoul' go back to Bak'r Str—"as he was struggling to get up, he tripped and fell to the floor, causing Lestrade and I to burst into laughter. He pouted again for a second, but soon joined in.


	4. Chapter 4

After we all got over our giggles, Lestrade helped him up. He was still unsteady, but luckily, quickly got a cab.

Sherlock's story was a little upsetting. The casual way he talked about his father's abuse was disconcerting, but since he was so nonchalant about it, I supposed he wouldn't mind me putting it up on this blog (he doesn't).

I also gained more insight into his past, or so I thought. "So you like girls then?" I asked, thinking I'd finally solved the mystery of Sherlock's sexual orientation. "I don't like anything," he said, hiccupping. "I kind of only took her because she was dating Mycroft." That seemed plausible, so back to the Asexual-Sherlock theory.

* * *

Lestrade started whistling some tune in the cab, and I knew he words. Suddenly we were all three singing loudly and drunkenly:

"_Whiskey, whiskey, there on the shelf_

_You were so quiet all there by yourself_

_Things were fine till they took you down_

_And opened you up and passed you around!"_

Needless to say we were quickly tossed out of the cab, and this time it wasn't Sherlock's fault. Luckily we were only five minutes out from Baker Street.

But it took about ten minutes to get there we were all laughing and tripping along so. Mrs. Hudson heard us before we even got there, and was standing in a long robe with her head sticking out the doorway, like a worried mother.

"You three, where have you been!? I've been worried sick! And…Sherlock? You've been out drinking too? Oh my—get inside, before you all catch your deaths!"

We had been leaning on each other's shoulders, Lestrade on one side, me on the other, and Sherlock in between, and we didn't even try to break formation when attempting to get through the door. Needless to say we all fell into the flat at Mrs. Hudson's feet, laughing hysterically. She shook her head at us, and then went to make coffee so that at least Lestrade would be sober enough to make it home.

We untangles ourselves, but didn't bother getting up. Sitting propped against the wall, we continues our song. Sherlock has a pretty good voice, but I haven't heard him since this episode. Mrs. Hudson returned with coffees. Lestrade sipped his, but Sherlock and I just stirred ours around. Soon there was a knock at the door.

Mrs. Hudson gathered herself and went to open it. "Yes, what is it?"

"We got a call of public disturbance, and when I saw the address, I _had_ to come see what Freak had done now," said a familiar voice. Donovan.

"I've done nothing you whore," Sherlock called from the floor, causing us to bust up again. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, before apparently giving up and going to her flat.

"Freak?" Donovan said, peaking around the door.

"Yes, hello Donovan." Sherlock slurred lazily.

Sally saw me, Lestrade, and Sherlock propped against the wall in the entry way, and her face was blank. "What the hell happened?"

I piped up, "We got Sherlock drunk."

"Yup," Lestrade agreed, although now he had come back to earth a little since he'd finished his coffee. "I've got to be going now, though. The wife…" he said leadingly, in a way that made me think he was not happy to go home to Mrs. Lestrade.

"Oh, is she still sleeping around?" Sherlock asked, genuine interest on his face. Lestrade just shook his head, smiling a little. "Night, Sherlock. Make sure he gets some sleep, John. Sally," he said in acknowledgement, and apparently he didn't have the authority to make her leave, since she wasn't there under homicide, and she was calling in response to an actual complaint, instead of dropping by to antagonize Sherlock. He did add however, "Don't over stay your welcome," before heading out into the night, presumably to hail a taxi.

"What welcome? She never had a welcome! Go away," Sherlock said, hauling himself to his feet, swaying and stumbling a bit as he stood. Donovan looked on in abject horror.

"That's a good idea Donovan," I said. Apparently, I'd sobered up before Sherlock, which only made sense, because I'd had less to drink and had quit earlier. "Good night, have a safe trip home," I said, no reason not to be at least semi-polite. Sherlock however had other plans.

"You mean have a safe trip to Anderson's house," he told me as I started dragging him up the stairs.

He lost his balance and sat down hard on the stairs. Then he burst out laughing. Donovan still look terrified, but she looked down right _petrified_ when she heard him laugh. Apparently, in Donovan's book, freaks don't laugh.

She quickly stepped back outside, and closed the door. We heard her car start, and listened as she drove away.

"Bye," Sherlock said, as he leaned against the wall of the stairwell. He seemed to have tired himself out. I could only hope. I was getting kind of liquor-tired myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**I am so sorry for the late update! I've been sick, and I had to take finals from the hospital, and…well you don't wanna read my drama. Here is the fifth chapter of 'I Don't Drink' and even though I said in the summary that it would be short, I'm kind of glad it's become a multi-chapter story. It's been really fun to write. **

**BBC owns the characters and whatnot, I only own the dialogue and plot to this particular fic.**

* * *

"Sherlock, you have to go to bed," I said, having sobered slightly. My flatmate however, was still falling down drunk, and seemed to be getting sleepy pretty quickly. He'd tripped on the way into the apartment and refused to get up. He was currently leaning against the couch, a goofy smile on his face.

"I'm not bloody tired, so leave me alone."

"Sherlock, you can't pass out here. You need to sleep this off, okay?"

"No! John, let's hang out! Or whatever you ordinary people do when you're inebriated!" Sherlock exclaimed, rather loudly.

"Shh, Sherlock, you'll wake the neighborhood!" I was trying to get him to be quiet, but that only seemed to encourage him. He got to his feet, falling into the coffee table a little. "Who gives a fucking _shit_!?" he cried. I gaped. Sherlock didn't usually swear, but he was worse than a sailor now.

"I do! Just, come on, let's get you to bed." I grabbed his arms and pinned them to his sides, steering him towards his bedroom. He didn't offer any significant resistance, he just whined about how he wasn't tired and how he shouldn't have to go to bed if he didn't want to. HE was a bloody genius, and one of the most sophisticated men I knew but he sounded like an absolute child sometimes.

* * *

We finally made it to his room, and I tossed him unceremoniously on the bed. This had been a fun experiment, but it was getting tedious now. I wondered if Sherlock ever had this problem with any of his health-code-violating experiments.

"NO, John! Wait!—shouldn't we call Lestrade to make sure he didn't kill himself on the way home? He isn't an entirely competent driver while sober, I wouldn't put it past him to be involved in some kind of fucking traffic accident despite the fact that he only lives just outside the goddamn city."

Damn him, using reason on me. But Lestrade probably was home by now, so I called him. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hullo?"

"Lestrade, it's John Watson. Just wanted to make sure you got home."

"Yeah, John, just walked through the door. Thanks for checking up."

"Hullo, Lestrade!" Sherlock interjected from where he was lying face down on the sheets.

Lestrade chuckled. "Hullo, Sherlock. Goodnight, John."

* * *

After hanging up with Lestrade, I looked down at Sherlock. "Happy? Greg's not dead; he's home safe and sound…What makes you think he's a rubbish driver?"

"Just the fact that he is a goddamn rubbish driver."

"Yeah, but you never let him drive you to crime scenes so how would you know?"

"His rubbish driving isn't why I don't let him drive me to crime scenes, though I suppose it is part of the reason."

"What's the whole reason then?" I asked. If I was going to have to stay up babysitting Sherlock because he refused to go to bed and sober up, I was at least going to get some information out of it. He knew tons about me in a glance, but my flatmate's past was an enigma. I knew almost nothing about him.

"Reminds me of when Lestrade used to drag me out of my flat high and arrest me for possession. HE was a rubbish driver then too," Sherlock said, trying to go for his usual lazy drawl, but I could hear hurt, and pain, and _shame_ in his voice as well.

"Oh." I said. I felt bad. He'd been liquor-happy for almost an hour and I'd bummed him out with one seemingly innocent question. Time to move on to something lighter then.

"Well, what about when you were a teenager?"

"What about when I was a teenager?"

"Well, you tend to give off a sort of 'I-popped-out-of-the-womb-fully-grown-and-wearing-a-poncy-coat' kind of vibe." I said, which was true. I couldn't imagine Sherlock ever _growing up_: being an innocent little kind with dreams and hopes and emotions he didn't feel he had to control, or being a pubescent teenager full of awkward moments and all-consuming angst and pointless rebellion. He just seemed like a constant—like he had always been this way.

"John, you are an accredited physician. Surely you are aware—logically at least—that I was born naked and screaming, grew into a child with aspirations and feelings, and went through puberty like everyone else."

Oops, think I said some of that out loud. Guess I'm not as sober as I originally thought. But I had to answer Sherlock because he'd done that condescending voice that I hate so much.

"Yes, logically I know that."

"I hope so, for the sake of all of those who come through your office."

"I want to hear about when you were a teenager." I said, curious. Would we still have been mates, knowing what kind of teenager I was back then? Was he the same as he was now, or more…_free_? And—dear _God_ what the _bloody hell_ was he like to _live with_?!

"Hellish, according to Mycroft." _Damn, out loud again._

"And again," he said smirking. "Look, I had odd growth spurts, my voice cracked and broke constantly…I wore a lot of black. I had braces, and wore my hair too long, had the need for an occasional cold shower in the morning. I got beat up a little, I experimented. I smoked. I antagonized Mycroft. I pulled childish—yet elaborate, and _very_ well executed—pranks. I was a kid, just like everyone else."

"Oh, I highly doubt that. I know you were different. Probably a right prat too, and stubborn. Solitary. And I _know_ you deduced your way through high school."

"Well, I may have been different in that regard."

"Tell me more."

At this point, Sherlock actually did look kind of tired, and he blinked blearily at me, looking like he was going to drop off to sleep at any moment. "You're just taking advantage of a loose tongue." His words were slurring still, but it sounded like it was from tiredness more than any leftover drunkenness.

"Shamelessly," I said with a grin.

"Well, I'm actually tired now so I'm going to sleep like you tried to tell me to do earlier. Go away."

I sighed inwardly. The walls were back up. But I rolled my eyes at his fickle actions and made for my room, turning the light off on the way out.

* * *

**TeeHee, Sherlock used to get morning wood :)**

**Again, so sorry for the late update. I know I said this would be a one- or two-shot, but it was too much fun, I had to keep it going. At least one more chapter, maybe two, then I'll leave you guys alone. Don't forget to Review, and check out my other story 'From Ash and Snow' about Sherlock relapsing into drug use after The Fall. **

**Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

I awoke with a headache, despite drinking several glasses of water before bed. I groaned and looked at the clock on the bedside table: 7:45 am. Damn my military training, though I suppose it's better than waking at 6 am like I usually did. I laid in bed, remembering as far back I could. I remembered the explosion in Sherlock's bedroom, and how Lestrade came over to invite them out drinking. Suddenly, it all came back in a rush: They'd gotten Sherlock drunk, and had had a good time. They gotten kicked out of their cabs both to and from the pub, and Donovan had come over and Sherlock had talked about his past drug use and his family and his childhood. _Oh, crap!—Sherlock! _

Sherlock never drank and so his hangover probably sucked worse than John's. He didn't want to get up; his bed was so comfortable and his head ached and that damned sunlight was invading his room against his will. But he decided to be responsible and forced himself up to check on his crazy flatmate.

_No good to him if I can't at least half function, _I thought. So I grabbed a quick shower and brushed my teeth and gingerly made my way downstairs.

I pondered on how I could approach Sherlock. He was so damned difficult _without _a hangover. But I worried for nothing apparently.

Sherlock was downstairs, fully dressed. He was plucking at his violin, apparently tuning it but not playing because John had a headache. The kettle was on, and he looked up and smirked when John entered the room. "Morning, John."

"You—I—I came down here to—you know what? Fuck it." Of course Sherlock was a high functioning drunk.

"Did I—? I put the kettle on, I thought it would help…was that not good?" Sherlock asked. A few months ago I finally browbeat him into understanding that we were in fact friends, and since he'd apparently never had a friend, whenever he did something friendly and it confused me, he panicked, thinking I wouldn't like him anymore. I didn't get to learn much about his childhood last night, but I knew he hadn't been treated well.

"No it's great actually." I said with a genuine smile, despite the fact that the curtains were open and the fucking sun had found me again. I poured some tea, and sat in my chair, facing Sherlock.

"Oh. Well, um, good," he said, a little inarticulate which was my only cue that he had even been out drinking with us (besides the memory that it happened of course). He cleared his throat. "Lestrade texted. There's been a double murder," he said, trying to control the excitement in his voice. He pulled out his phone to show me the text.

I squinted at the screen. "That says a murder-suicide."

"Anderson's on forensics. I'm being generous by saying double murder. With Anderson's level of intelligence, it could be a bear mauling for all we know." Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"I'm sorry, how are you not hungover right now?" I said. I knew it was rather irrelevant, but it was bothering me. I was halfway through my tea and it was hardly helping. And he hadn't had any and he was fine. It was maddening.

"I am. Just not much." He said with a hint of a smile. "Get ready, we need to be there soon."

I just sighed.

We arrived at the crime scene. My headache had receded, but my mouth was still rather dry. All in all, I assessed that I could handle a crime scene, so long as it wasn't particularly bloody. Luckily, the victim's heads were just bashed all the way in. _(what an odd statement, I suppose you find yourself thinking things like that when you run around with Sherlock Holmes.)_

"John, Sherlock, glad you two are here." Lestrade said, sounding tired. I gave him a sympathetic smile and passed him a water bottle. He nodded and took it. "Okay, murder-suicide according to Anderson—"

"Starting off wrong."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock—"

"What have I done already, Freak?" Anderson said, grimacing at Sherlock.

"How did the victim bash his own head in with a—"Sherlock looked over briefly, then his eyes flicked back to Anderson. "—sledgehammer?"

"Oh for God's sake!" Anderson said exasperated. He stormed off to gossip with Donovan, who dinned an expression of awkwardness and amusement.

Sherlock didn't notice. He was busy inspecting the bodies, the room, and the objects within the room. He stood and it was obvious that fresh deductions were on his lips, but before he could speak them, Donovan came and stood next to him. He glanced at her, since she was just staring at him with a smirk. "What?" he asked impatiently.

"Are you sure you should be here? After all, you were more than a little drunk last night. Can we even trust your deductions? Are you still intoxicated?" she asked in a patronizing tone, smirking the whole way along.

Sherlock just looked irritated. He rolled his eyes. "Do I look intoxicated to you?" He snarled.

"Oi, Donovan, knock it off." Lestrade called tiredly.

"I'm just saying, Greg."

"Don't worry about it Lestrade. Sally, use those mediocre deduction skills. I am clearly sober and unaffected by last night's…activities. Although if you want to come back by 221B and check on me again, I'm sure everyone here could understand." He smirked, and I smirked too. He'd let just enough tone in his voice to imply Sally had come around to check up on him out of some…girlish crush. Which she and the rest of Lestrade's team seemed to pick up on.

"I did not come by to _check_ on you!"

"Yet you admit, you did come by. And you were certainly checking on _something_. I regret to inform you, I'm married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest—"

"Ugh! Gross, no one would ever—UGH!" She stormed off, knowing that if she tried to explain she'd only make it sound worse. Sherlock simply smirked, called Anderson an idiot, then solved the murder. He told Lestrade the case was much too boring. And got into a cab and headed down the street.

John sighed. He had a hangover (which was returning with a vengeance), and only Sherlock would leave him in the middle of a crime scene, again.


End file.
